


eleven's letters

by roawrites



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fillie, Mileven, Strangerthings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roawrites/pseuds/roawrites
Summary: Mike finds Eleven's letters, but he's too late.inspired by Not Easily Conquered.
Relationships: Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	eleven's letters

The United States has been rumored to send a troop of soldiers overseas equipped with superhuman abilities. An investigation is currently underway.

New York Times

August 13, 1989

-

El strapped herself into her seat, not turning her head to look out the window. She couldn't. She couldn't turn around and see the life she was leaving behind. Mike stood teary-eyed, waiting for her face to pop into the small window frame, but it never did. The huge car drove off down the street before disappearing into the warm sunrise. Without a word, Mike turned around and pushed through the crowd, heading towards his house. 

"Mike, where are you going?" Will asked, grabbing Mike's shoulder and spinning him around. 

"Home." 

"Mike," Will said, cocking his head to the side. He hated seeing his best friend hurt like this. 

"I'm going home," Mike ripped himself away from Will, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away. 

"You don't have to be alone. We can talk!" Will shouted after him. Mike turned around, removing his hands from his pockets to give a dramatic shrug. 

"Maybe I don't want to talk," Mike yelled back, turning around and kicking a rock across the beaten path. 

Will swore he saw tears reflect off the sunrise. 

-

It's been too long. I forget how to write sometimes, you know? I pick up the pencil and it sits in my hand, the lead feeling heavy as it pulls towards the paper, words begging to be written. Sometimes, I just don't have the right words. They sit on the tip of my tongue and as they make a faithful leap towards my paper, they float away, never being written down. It pains me that I have to write these letters. I guess it's better it's from me and not someone else telling you that I'm dead.

I've been learning while I'm over here. Not just math and history, but about how to survive. And not just how to survive back in Hawkins by getting a job and having a family. I've seen too much. I know how to hide in plain sight, how to hide my fear and anxiety, how to hide my belongings, how to hide my powers, how to hide so deep in the forest that not even the best soldiers could find me. I guess survival is all about hiding.

I wonder if you've moved on, but then I remember who you are. If we did 353 days once, we can do it a few more times. I can't remember what day it is, but I'm sure it will catch up to me someday. You always wanted to travel the world, but now that I've done it, I don't think it's worth it. I've seen too much pain, at least where they sent me. I don't think you would ever be able to move on from that. 

I miss you more than words. 

(1990)

"Eleven's Letters: Letters from the First Superhero" by Kat Walsh, 2015

-

El had shoved her notebook in her bag before he arrived. She sat on her bed and stared up at him, his dark mustache highlighting his deep cheekbones. 

"Sir," She said, standing up attentively. 

"Eleven, we have a mission for you," the man said, holding out a file. El stuck her hands out to retrieve it, but he tossed it on her bed and swiftly turned on his heels. 

"Be at the main tent in no later than 15, Eleven." 

Every time she was called Eleven, El bit her lip so hard it bled. She plopped onto the bed and opened the file, examining the worn pages and trying to decipher the many languages scrawled in the margins. After finally reading and rereading the information, she had a good enough idea of what was going on. El stood up, taking a swig from her water bottle and grabbed the file in her hand, heading out of the tent. She paused and looked at the floor. 

The sun was at its peak, the rays illuminating the tent through the small sliver in between the curtains. El was always thankful for the light. She never saw much of it anyways.

-

I am so sorry. I am so sorry for everything I did on that continent and on this one. I am not the same. I don't want to come back to you. You don't deserve someone as shitty as me. If I don't come back, celebrate. There isn't anything left for me anymore. 

(1998)

"Eleven's Letters: Letters from the First Superhero" by Kat Walsh, 2015

-

Remember that one summer where you taught me how to swim? I miss that so much. I miss the way the clean water felt as it ran through my hair. I would pay for my eyes to be filled with sunscreen right now. I miss the smell of the sunscreen colliding with the taste of sweet watermelon. I wish I had gotten there sooner. 

I miss Christmas at home. I miss the hot chocolate you made, and how you got the biggest whipped cream mustaches. We were so busy this year that we forgot about it until the snow melted. We had a mission that day, to save some children. At least it was a good one that day. I remember it, too. The ground was covered in a light dusting of snow, like powdered sugar off the donuts you like. We were up high and way off course, taking shelter in the mountains far away from the war. They had gotten wind of us and we couldn't afford to lose more than we already had. I've already lost a lot. What more can I lose?

I know you'll never read these letters I write. Nobody will. It's just a matter of time before the base is discovered and gets blown up without any warning. My letters and sketches will burn along with our gear, my thoughts will evaporate with the last of our water. The heart I used to wear on a sleeve will now be buried under the rubble as we all die an untimely death. I guess all death isn't untimely. 

I feel at peace with most of these people, but I guess our connections are cold and forced. We have to be a family, there isn't another option out here. I guess I have made friends with a boy. Don't be jealous, he has nothing on you. He has a real name, and he actually gets called by it. Steven, but he lets me call him Steve. On nights that were so cold, my teeth chattered and my toes turned white from the frosty air, he would lend me his blanket. If you were here, you would do the same. 

I miss you more than ever. (1991)

"Eleven's Letters: Letters from the First Superhero" by Kat Walsh, 2015

-

Mike stared blankly at the paper, reading and rereading the headlines again. 

Eleven's Letters

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, before setting the paper down at the table. His fingers traced her name again and again. 

He had never seen these. 

Why hadn't he seen these? 

Mike stood up from the table and threw open the front door, his keys jangling in his hands as he jumped in his car and sped off. One hand gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, the other gently held onto the paper.

His mind ran a million miles a minute, his pulse pounding against his skull. 

Where did they get these?

Why wasn't he made aware of these?

Did she send these?

How did they find them?

Mike pulled into the parking lot of the huge building and stormed inside. The building was new, huge and out of place. When the World security council decided to move their main building here, The Hex, people freaked out. Now, they are used to the monstrous building blocking the once clear Indiana skyline. 

He ran up to the front desk and slammed the paper on the table. 

"Sir-" 

"Shut the fuck up. Where did these come from?" 

"Sir-"

"HOW DID THEY GET THESE?" Mike asked, his voice rising higher than it should have. 

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." 

"Where is Nancy?" He asked. 

"Who are you?"

"You know damn well who I am," Mike said through gritted teeth. The receptionist studied his face as he sat there, his jaw clenched. Finally, her eyes lit up and she reached under her desk, pressing a small red button. The door behind her opened up and she nodded at Mike, who slipped past the desk and through the hallway. 

Mike knew this building all too well. Nancy was able to get a job after she had proved her encounter with the monsters and had worked her way up to a very high position. She loved her job and took it very seriously. Mike was very proud of her. He waited as the elevator went up to the highest floor, releasing him with a ding. 

He stepped off and found her office, opening the door without knocking. She turned around, pressing the landline against her shoulder to shush the approaching guest, but she noticed who it was. 

"I'm sorry, can I call you back, an important client just arrived," She asked into the phone, her voice as smooth as butter. She hummed into the phone and placed it down on the table, sighing as she looked up at Mike. She noticed the newspaper. 

"Mike-"

"What are these?" He asked, setting the paper on her desk. 

"Mike-"

"How did the New York Times get these before I did?"

"Mike-"

"How come this... this journalist was able to get these love letters before I was? Doesn't everything go through you, Nancy? Doesn't it?" Mike asked, his voice rattling on the verge of tears. 

"I-"

"The author. Didn't she use to work here? How did she get these letters?"

"I'm sorry," Nancy whispered. 

"Why the fuck are you sorry?" 

Nancy slid into her chair and buried her face in her hands, hot tears streaming down her arms and puddling on the table. 

For Mike, that answered his question. 

-

I guess at this point, I'm writing to myself. I might as well make these personal. 

I haven't- We haven't slept in three days. We are constantly moving our base around, trying to keep us protected and safe. We are Americas best bet, or so they say. Honestly, I don't even know what war I'm fighting in. We just fight to fight. 

I miss sleeping in a bed. I miss my marshmallow pillow, with the pink case on it. I miss my soft blanket with the hole in it, the one you used to poke me through. I miss your bed when you let me lay in it after we went swimming. It smelled like you and god, how I miss that smell. All I smell here is sadness and longing. We all long to go home. For some, it's a matter of time. For others, it's a dream. 

I miss your lips. There, I said it. I miss the way the felt against mine. They perfectly fit together, like puzzle pieces, shaped so perfectly there was no other fit except ours. Now my lips are too chapped that it hurts to wrap them around a water bottle. I wouldn't kiss you with these. I don't deserve such soft ones pressed against mine. 

I miss your hands touching mine. I miss the way your fingers felt as the ran down my arms. I miss the shivers I felt when your hands rubbed my back so gently. I miss seeing you. I miss seeing people for who they are. Here, we aren't allowed to see other people. Just targets. It hurts.

I so tired, my eyes are struggling to stay open by the dim light of this lamp. I want to see you again. I want to be with you again. I always knew that I loved you, but never this much. 

I'll see you again, my love.

(1990)

"Eleven's Letters: Letters from the First Superhero" by Kat Walsh, 2015

-

I have watched more people die last week than I have ever seen. My heart is stone cold, buried deep in the ice of this war-torn wasteland some people call home. I am frozen, scarred and paralyzed. I don't remember what it was like to really feel. Maybe I will one day. 

I hate to admit it, but I have killed people. I have killed too many people. I remember. I remember before I killed them all. I remember after killing them all. I remember killing them all. I remember each and every one of them. I remember their screams, their sobs. I remember their eyes, glassed over with fear as I killed them without touching a gun. I am the weapon. I am why everyone is afraid. 

Maybe after all of this, I can go home. Maybe, I don't even deserve to go home. 

(1996)

"Eleven's Letters: Letters from the First Superhero" by Kat Walsh, 2015

-

Steve died last week. We buried him and covered his grave in pebbles since there were no flowers for miles. I guess everything is dead around here. I feel my body weakening. They say we are headed towards safety, headed towards a place where we might be able to finally rest. I don't think I'll ever be able to rest. My eyes stay open when I sleep because every time I shut them I see the faces of the people I was forced to kill. I hate myself because every morning I get up, the blood of my victims staining my uniform. I like to think that I give the quickest and least painful death out of us all. 

I wonder how long until we blow up. I used to dread death, the idea was so scary to me before, but now I crave it. I want my path to come to a fiery end so I don't have to do this anymore. I used to be a girl and now I am a machine. I am not allowed a heart and I am not allowed a soul. I am here to kill. 

Sometimes I remember the day I left, my body strapped back to the seat of the Humvee. I remember seeing you out of the corner of my eye. Your bright shirt contrasted against the gloom of the day. It was unusually foggy that day in August. Some days I wished I had turned back to look at you. Other days I know what I did was right. If I looked back, I wouldn't have kept going. 

(1993)

"Eleven's Letters: Letters from the First Superhero" by Kat Walsh, 2015

-

The superhuman troop sent out 10 years ago has returned home. Not all members made it back safely, with the most noticeable casualty being that of Eleven, the girl with telekinesis. She left at age fifteen and we have recently learned that she went missing beyond enemy lines a year ago and was considered dead as they arrived home last week. Our condolences to every family involved. More to come. 

The New York Times

December 16, 1998

-

"You've had these all along?" Mike asked, slamming the file down, it's contents spilling all over the place. Nancy picked up a piece of paper. One of the letters, the original copy. Its corners were torn and the paper was yellowing. She placed it down and tried to smooth it out. 

"Mike, we had to protect Hex. You know that if word got out that... that we knew what happened-"

"What happened?" Mike pressed on, clearly not knowing what she was talking about. Nancy rubbed her temples and smoothed her hair behind her ears. 

"World incidents. Accidents. Mistakes. They weren't mistakes." 

"They were you?" 

"God no!" Nancy exclaimed, taken aback by her brother's accusation. 

"Then who's?" 

"Hers."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Mike asked, beginning to pace around the room. 

"She was kidnapped behind enemy lines. Everyone thought she was dead for quite some time. Once we received a random tip, a photograph of a girl. She hadn't aged a day since she was kidnapped." 

"Then it wasn't her!" 

"They took her and experimented on her. They turned her into a weapon."

"According to these," Mike said, waving the letters, "She already was one!"

"They made her worse. They kept her on ice and only took her out when they needed her. She was dangerous, and if the world knew about her, we would have been living in hell." 

"She already was living in hell," Mike snapped. 

"A small price to pay for our world's current freedom, Mike." 

"How fucking dare you," Mike started, but Nancy sighed. 

"Mike-" 

"How long have you had these letters?" 

"Long enough." 

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't need you to know." 

"I loved her, Nancy." 

"I know you did."

"I've never loved anyone else." 

"I know you didn't," Nancy responded. The two stared at the table in a long and eerie silence. A tear slid down Mikes' cheek. 

"I always knew she wasn't coming back." 

Nancy looked up at him, confused. 

"Why?" She asked, shuffling the papers together. 

"Because the day she left, she never turned around to look back at me."

-

I wonder what my last letter will be like. Will I be happy? Sad? Will my hands be blue and struggling to write because it's too cold? Will I be overheating and practically melting out onto the paper? Will I be ready for death? There are too many unanswered questions and not enough time. I only know the time so I can be ready for missions. Time is different out here. We don't have enough time out here. I wish my time out here was up. I wish we had more time together. I shouldn't have wasted my time at home. I shouldn't have come. 

I miss you so much.

(1992)

"Eleven's Letters: Letters from the First Superhero" by Kat Walsh, 2015

-

I want to return home every day, but then I remember that I am out here to fight. I am fighting for you, for your safety, for your- for our home. I never understood why soldiers wanted to return home so badly, but now I do. I dream of home. The taste of home lingers in my mouth, the scent of home burns my nose as I try and smell it from across the sea. I miss the feel of the warm sheets, the sound of the toaster, the breeze blowing through my window every morning. I miss your bike bell, I miss riding on the handlebars of your bike until you finally taught me how to ride by myself. I miss home. 

So far, I've been just fine. I think with this group of other superhumans, I'll be safe. I think I can last until the war is over. I hope. I don't want to die out here, at least not yet. I would like to return home first, to see you and all of my friends. Sometimes I wish I wasn't this superhuman. I wish my mind was normal and the most advanced thing it could do was solve math problems. I wish it were that simple. Too bad everyone else lives in black and white and I live in the grey. Sometimes I wish we all lived in color. 

I am not going to say goodbye but instead see you again. One day I will be back to love you in person. I promise. 

(1989)

"Eleven's Letters: Letters from the First Superhero" by Kat Walsh, 2015

-

Mike stood over her grave, the photocopies of the letters in his hand. He placed flowers down and stood upright, staring at it. It looked eerie, especially since he knew that nothing was in there. He hoped that she wasn't still out there, fighting. The letters proved that she didn't want to fight anymore. His stomach flip-flopped as he remembered how small she was when she left. 

He took a step forward and kissed the tombstone, letting a lone tear fall on top of it. Mike turned and walked away, the tears now falling faster. 

This time, as he walked away, 

he didn't turn around to look at her.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! for more like this, I have a book on Wattpad titled "Mileven Season Three".   
> this story was inspired by Not Easily Conquered, which is a brilliant read if you haven't already. thanks again!!


End file.
